


Polymers Are Forever

by ClementineStarling



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:31:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8198141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: The one time Jensen did ask for it.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CasieMod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CasieMod/gifts), [jaqueline_nutweasel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqueline_nutweasel/gifts).



> (Who, unlike Jensen, both didn't ask for this)
> 
> I hope this is reasonably canon-compliant, and if not, that the porn makes up for it. (However, corrections are welcome of course, as is other feedback. <3)
> 
> This is in part [nuclearsafetydance](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclearsafetydance)'s fault whose fic [Schritte auf Drahtseilen](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2348516) mentioned Jensen having trouble with the coordination of his hand ergo with jerking off. 
> 
> Also inspired by Pritchard's quote of Jensen in the System Rift trailer: "I owe you one, Pritchard." I mean honestly - with that intonation, what were we supposed to think?!
> 
> Title taken from [the eponymous song by Future of the Left](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6rPZ3brpT1k)

__

This constant brooding grates on his patience. Granted, life is unfair, the world sucks, everybody's a pain in the ass, yada yada. But there are people worse off than Adam fucking Jensen, big shining hero, who's got all his top-rate augs for free when they cost other people an arm and a leg, no pun intended. You could argue of course, he did earn them exactly like that, paid for them in kind, with blood and bone and excruciating pain. And you could also claim that after all he was injured in the line of duty, protecting the company's interests concerning that exact bionic technology he now benefits from himself, so naturally he deserves some compensation for his losses. And Pritchard is the last person to question that. But.

It would be nice if he was a little bit grateful for a change, appreciate the fucking effort everyone puts into patching him up alright, instead of persistently getting hard working cybermancers like Pritchard on their already strained nerves with his act of tormented hero. It's not _his_ fault, Jensen's lost his arms and legs and fuck knows what else. And Jensen's certainly not the only one bending over backwards to be a good boy and make Daddy Sarif happy. So in face of this unprovoked grumpiness, it's no wonder he is always so pissed when Jensen's around, Pritchard decides. He's simply reflecting the negative vibes Jensen carries around with him like a fucking armor. You reap what you sow, as they say.

“You know what?” Pritchard says without looking up from the screen, “You should do something about that temper of yours eventually. Whatever it is guys like you do to blow off steam. Punch someone in the face, work out, get laid. Anything to improve the attitude, so you don't have to take your frustration out on your colleagues. Jesus Christ, is it too much to ask to at least jack off every once in a while?”

The image pops up in Pritchard head unbidden while he's finishing the sentence, a sleek, black hand wrapped around-- 

Before his mind has had any chance to linger on the picture, there's a sickening crunch, followed by the splash of liquid and a clatter that makes Pritchard almost jump up from his chair. “What the fuck, Jensen!” he says when he sees what's happened. The bastard has broken the coffee mug he's been holding, clutched it a tiny bit too hard it seems, and now all he he's got in that damn black hand of his are a couple of porcelain shards, dripping coffee on Pritchard's fucking floor. Most of it is already pooling on the ground, forming a puddle around a heap of chinaware pieces which look as though they had a run-in with some sort of grinder.

“Is this supposed to demonstrate how fucking incapable you are of keeping it together? I mean, look at this mess!” 

He tears his eyes away from shards on the floor to award Jensen a deprecating stare, but instead of the expected smug grin he is confronted with a strange, almost sad expression.

“You're right,” Jensen says calmly. “I do have some issues with control. More precisely with fine motor skills.”

Pritchard is still racking his brain for a witty remark to counter this confession when the realization begins to dawn on him. He blinks. 

His eyes flick to Jensen's hand that's still curled in on itself. 

“Oh,” he says, growing pale. _Oh._ Most helpfully his mind has come up with another picture for illustration and now he's feeling sick.

When his gaze meets up with Jensen's, Jensen is still eyeing him quietly, with a detached sort of interest, as if this was all about Pritchard, not his own inability to...

Pritchard shuts his eyes for a moment to collect himself. 

“You could have told us you were experiencing... malfunctions,” he says at last, as matter of fact as he can possibly be about the issue, then adds: “You haven't hurt yourself, have you?” He has trouble keeping that anxious little squeak from his voice. 

Jensen laughs. It's a brittle sound, as dry and coarse as his voice. “For someone like you, who's so madly in love with their tech, it's maybe a weird thing to imagine – but I prefer the touch of actual human skin over these bionic claws.” He looks at his hands as if they have grown over night and he's still not entirely sure what to do with them.

Pritchard doesn't pay any attention to the insult – a rare case of indifference, usually he would leap at every opportunity for a fight, but at the very moment he is too busy trying not to picture artificial black fingers closing around Jensen's... Again he stops himself in his train of thought. What the fuck is wrong with him? This sudden fixation on Jensen's masturbation routine is just plain weird, and also totally uncalled for. It's none of his fucking business what his co-workers chooses to do with his hands, or with his dick for that matter, it's simply an issue of functionality: if the hands don't work properly they need to be fixed, and Pritchard, as a well-meaning employee of Sarif Industries, naturally feels obliged to take care of the problem. It's a question of professional pride, nothing else.

He clears his throat. “This isn't about your preferences. I don't give a rat's ass about whatever you do or don't do with your hands as long as they're _theoretically_ up to the task. By default you should be able to use them for all, eh, activities necessary to fulfill basic human needs, otherwise they don't live up to the quality standards this company stands for. Seriously, Jensen, you should have filed a report about this.”

“So in your opinion I should have complained about my new robot hands being useless for jerking off? That apart from the sensations and stimuli being totally screwed they're what? Too hard and too cold and too clumsy and sometimes I can't estimate the amount of strength needed just right so I'm afraid I'd accidentally crush my dick?”

Pritchard can't suppress another wince at the thought. “At least you could have said you were having difficulties assessing correctly how much force to apply.”

“And admit to not being entirely perfect? Fat chance, buddy.” 

It's a weak joke, as weak as the smile that comes with it, and Pritchard understands it at once for the retrograde maneuver it is, an attempt to get back on familiar ground, dissolve all this existential angst shit about the loss of limbs and the inability to jack off in a bit of the usual banter, and he won't have it.

“This isn't a joke, Jensen. Your problem in that... particular area could indicate a general malfunction of the biochip, perhaps a glitch of sorts.”

“You don't say...” The irony is thick as glue in Jensen's voice, the sort of sweet, tempting stickiness designed to lure Pritchard into another one of their pointless quarrels. Only, today Pritchard is simply too tired of this shit to rise to the bait.

“I'll see what I can do about it,” he promises with a resigned sigh and is about to turn his attention back to his computer when he sees it – a broad, brazen grin on Jensen's face that got nothing in common with the slightly glum expression he wore through the majority of their conversation. Nervously Pritchard licks his lips.

“Anything else I can do for you in the meantime?”

Jensen's already wide grin widens even more. His teeth look sharp in the bright office light. “I thought maybe you could lend me a hand?” he says, and Pritchard can't decide whether its the sentence itself or the deep rasp of Jensen's voice that makes a shiver run down his spine. He's got actual goosebumps on his skin. 

“Are you out of your mind?” he stutters, but Jensen only laughs, and this time it's actually a good-natured, almost cheerful chuckle, not the usual hoarse bark.

“Don't say you haven't thought about it, Pritchard. The data are comprehensive. You licked your lips about six times since you started this conversation. Your heart-rate increased and so did your breathing frequency. And even apart from that. Why bring it up in the first place if not because you're curious--” Jensen steps closer, too close for comfort. He is still a fucking killing machine, Pritchard thinks, but somehow the thought only adds to the numb tingling sensation at the base of his spine.

It's fucking useless to deny it. That damn C.A.S.I.E.-mod must have picked up on all the tell-tales, not just the lip-biting and the racing pulse and the sheer concentration Pritchard has to muster not to accidentally stop breathing, but also the widened pupils, the slight sheen of sweat that's sprung up on his skin, not to forget the treacherous goosebumps. It's been designed for such purposes, and Pritchard knows only too well, why he isn't much of a people person. These days less than ever. It just sucks to be as see-through as fucking glass.

“So what do you say, Pritchard? I'd be eternally grateful for the favor. And if that's not enough of an incentive – I'm still not entirely useless. I may not have a good enough grip on myself,” He pauses, grinning, and waits for Pritchard to cease rolling his eyes before he continues, “but there are other movements I can perform with clockwork accuracy. And--” He leans over the desk, so close now to where Pritchard is sitting on his chair, he can nearly feel the dampness of his breath on his skin. “My tongue works just fine.”

Pritchard is inclined to give a helpless yelp at the idea of having Jensen's tongue _anywhere_ on his body, but he stops himself at the last second. What the fuck is happening? Is he hallucinating? Did Jensen really just offer-- He pinches his arm, and it hurts like hell, he's picked a sensitive spot, pinched hard enough to bruise, but the scene doesn't shift – Jensen still stands much too close, a mouth-watering display of muscle, metal and polycarbonate, and Pritchard's finger tips itch with the urge to reach out and touch him. 

“You got something to drink? I guess some booze would help to get in the mood,” Jensen suggests, and Pritchard realizes that he's not only actually serious about his offer, he seems rather keen on it too. And that's what lets him come to a decision. His fingers fly to activate the “Do not disturb-mode” for the office he normally uses in the evenings when he wants to have a moment of fucking quiet and finally get some work done. It locks down the doors and dims the lights to a more comfortable brightness. Then he turns on his chair and gets to his feet.

Jensen has to back off a little to give him room to move, and he's careful not to leave Pritchard an inch more than is absolutely necessary, as if he still thinks he had to advertise the merchandise. He isn't much taller than Pritchard, but much, much wider in chest and shoulder, and those ridiculous arms, god, how fucking great they must feel if they caught you and held you tight!

Fuck, now I'm starting to imagine myself in the role of a fucking fairy tale princess, Pritchard thinks as he slips past Jensen, careful not to touch him and thus fall victim to this strange enchantment. He gets over to an old filing cabinet to fetch the bottle of Nikka, he keeps there for emergencies. He's got only one glass, but he supposes they won't really need it. He at least isn't intending to sip the whiskey as he usually does, slowly and with relish. Fuck no, this is about getting drunk asap. He unscrews the bottle and takes a large gulp, then passes it on to Jensen.

Without looking back he strolls over to his couch. It's meant for representation purposes, for receiving guests, small meetings and such things, but the only one who's ever sitting there is David Sarif when he drops by for an update on Pritchard's work. He's insisting on discussing some issues face to face, and Pritchard can hardly deny him, he's the boss after all, even though he definitely prefers talking to people via comm. And fortunately, so do most other people. The lack of visitors means, he uses the couch mostly for sleeping. There have been too many late nights at the office when it didn't seem worthwhile to go home anymore, not when he had only a couple of hours before he had get back to work again, and he's always been rather glad he could simply crash there.

Though he has rarely felt as weak and boneless as he does now when he slumps down on it with a nervous knot in his stomach. 

Jensen follows him slowly, quietly. For someone so heavily augmented he is damn elegant, graceful as a fucking cat, and he knows it, Jesus Christ, he's making a fucking show out of it. He stops a few paces away, puts the whiskey bottle to his lips and tips it. The view of his throat, of his greedy swallows, is mesmerizing by itself. But then Jensen sets down the bottle on the small coffee table and starts taking his clothes off, and that's when Pritchard, who's angled for the bottle to help himself to some more liquid courage, almost chokes.

What remains of Jensen's natural body is, well, it's fucking awesome. Not that Pritchard didn't find him attractive before (deep down somewhere, in the trash basket of his mind), he's got a pretty enough face, chiseled features and all, and it's hard to miss the obvious appeal of tousled hair and manly stubble, not to speak of his general shapeliness and that fucking impressive arms.

But the sight of actual human flesh, of the pale, scarred skin and hard, smooth muscle, is something else entirely. It tells of suffering, of discipline, of a fucking unbreakable will to live. This isn't the vessel of a god born from machines, it's the body of a man who survived the impossible, who was too stubborn to die but held on to dear life with every last ounce of his strength. But what exactly does that make him? Jensen is about as much of a monster as Sarif is a postmodern Prometheus...

“You're thinking too much, Francis,” Jensen says, apparently reading his mind. He bends down, his arms braced against the back rest of the couch, bracketing Pritchard, and then he leans even closer, so close their lips almost touch. 

“If you prick us, do we not bleed?” Jensen whispers and brushes his lips against Pritchard's, dry, soft nips, with only the faintest promise of wetness.

In Pritchard's head some fuse blows; not only is Jensen a damn gentle kisser, he's also quoting fucking Shakespeare while he's doing it? 

He opens his mouth to protest the absolute and complete wrongness of it all, just as Jensen murmurs against his lips “If you tickle us, do we not laugh?” and before he can say anything, the damn bastard has slipped his tongue into his mouth and fuck, the sensation jolts through him like an electric shock, reminding him quite abruptly that he too is made from blood and bone, even though the latter seems to be melting right now and all of his blood is rushing towards his groin, leaving him dazed and confused.

He's gasping for air when Jensen finally breaks away and takes the whiskey bottle from Pritchard's hands, who's been clutching it like a life line. “If you poison us, do we not die?” he says instead of a toast and takes another deep pull. 

Pritchard hardly waits for him to set down the bottle. He's had enough of the smug fucker. He raises his hand, buries it in Adam's short hair and tugs him down. It's bound to hurt, but of course the asshole only laughs. “And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?” Pritchard hisses before he crashes their mouths together in what is a kiss much more like the sort he's had in mind.

Jensen, it turns out, is all in favor of Pritchard taking over control. It's not a matter of strength of course, he could crush him like a bug or hold him down and do with him whatever he liked, but instead he chooses to lie meekly on his back and moan oh so prettily under Pritchard's biting kisses, breathless, throaty noises that are most likely the best thing Pritchard has ever heard. He appears overall rather sensitive, as if his body tries to make up for the loss of limbs with a concentration of nerves on the remaining skin, much like the senses of blind people are more developed to compensate for the lack of eye-sight. In the end it's Pritchard who's got to lean down on him with all his weight, so he can continue with sucking bruises into Jensen's skin, just above the collar bone, lurid marks that will become pretty water color blotches over the next few days.

Somewhen over the course of action, Pritchard loses his clothes too, his jacket first, then his turtleneck sweater, and hell, it does help, that Jensen looks at his skinny lily-white body as if it's a fucking revelation and touches him with such reference in his cold, sleek, polycarbonate fingers it makes Pritchard's skin prickle. And then he bucks under him, pressing his cock against Pritchard's own through the fabric of their pants to demonstrate how fucking hard he is for him, and if Pritchard had needed another incentive for removing their remaining clothes, now he would have got it on a fucking silver platter.

Jensen's cock is every bit as lovely as Pritchard imagined it to be; thick and hard and flushed it's straining towards him from its nest of unruly dark curls which seem rather rampant in comparison to his smooth-shaven chest. So this is Adam Jensen's truly wild and natural side, Pritchard thinks with a small smile as he wraps his fingers around Jensen's erection. It doesn't quite make for as pretty a picture as he's had in mind but still good enough. Especially since Jensen gives such a desperate groan at the touch, it has Pritchard's own cock twitch with excitement.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jensen mutters at Pritchard's first, tentative pulls in such a tone of urgency, Pritchard fears he's about to come right there and then, but for all his apparent sensitivity Adam Jensen isn't a schoolboy anymore and after a few moments gets a hold of himself, and that's when his litany of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ changes into “Fuck me, Pritchard,” and well, that's another unexpected turn of events. 

It's fucking 2027 alright, and no one's bothering too much anymore about that whole sexual orientation business, they were so fucking obsessed about in the fucking noughties, but some ideas still lurk about like goddamn zombies, and Pritchard wouldn't have taken Adam “the epitome of butch” Jensen for someone who likes to bottom, but he is only too happy to oblige. 

It's little short of a miracle they can scrape together the necessary equipment – thankfully Pritchard has some lube in his desk drawer (for a bit of winding down after these long, lonely work nights mentioned earlier) and Jensen can chip in a selection of condoms, good (and responsible) boy that he is. 

Pritchard picks one in his size (he's a little larger than average, so it's really lucky, there's a choice) which turns out to be a garish neon-green with a scaly reptilian surface when he rolls it over his cock.

“Now your dick looks like some kind of nuclear snake,” Jensen comments with a low chuckle. “Which would be an awesome porn name by the way, if you ever consider changing careers.”

Pritchard awards him a good-natured slap on the thigh for his cheeky comment. “You shouldn't praise my skill before you've had a taste,” he says and Jensen actually seems about to come up with another smart ass remark when Pritchard pushes into him with a smooth, though not too gentle thrust that literally knocks the air from Jensen's lungs. “And don't kill the mood with stupid jokes,” he says while Jensen's still trying to catch his breath, emphasizing his statement with another, carefully angled shove of his hips that makes Jensen's eyes roll back in his head. Looks like he's already found what he's been looking for.

He allows himself to get a bit lost in the feeling of hot tightness around him, providing his cock with just the perfect amount of pressure. So this is the man beneath the machine, he thinks as he's digging his fingers into the comparably soft flesh of Jensen's thighs as if he could somehow excavate more sensation, more natural stimulation, untainted by tech. Jensen's more out of breath as if he'd been running, his skin is flushed, his lips swollen from Pritchard's kisses and his own teeth, biting down in an attempt to stifle the louder sounds of pleasure. 

“What the fuck are you waiting for, Pritchard,” he says, the low rumble of his voice running through both of them like thunder. “I'm ready for your nuclear snake.”

And Pritchard doesn't need to be told twice, he gives Jensen what he deserves for his naughtiness (making fun of another man's cock is clearly bad manners), which is a series of well-aimed, almost punishing thrusts, deep and thorough, which have them both at the threshold of climax in a matter of minutes. And Jensen is such a pretty sight, wound so tight, every line of his body is begging for release, Pritchard almost wishes he could savor it more, but he is so close too, so fucking close he thinks it's what going mad must feel like. 

And then, just when he's convinced it can't get any better, Jensen whispers, barely audible, the one magic word, _please_ , and Pritchard takes pity on him, takes pity on them both, wraps his clever hacker fingers around Jensen's leaking cock and strokes and pushes into him at the same time, in the same rhythm. They last only a couple more thrusts before they come, nearly simultaneously, with that incredible fireworks intensity that makes you think you've gone blind and deaf and numb, because it's simply too much sensation at once, and you're on fucking fire.

“You were right,” Jensen mumbles afterwards as they lie half-asleep and curled into each other in an exhausted sort of postcoital truce on Pritchard's couch, which should by all means be too narrow for two men of their size, and yet they manage to squeeze onto it anyway. “I do feel a lot better now. I guess I owe you one, Pritchard.”

__


End file.
